


the banks begin to break (and I'm in the throes of it)

by passeridae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Jack fails to cope with loss, Post-Fall of Overwatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25938166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passeridae/pseuds/passeridae
Summary: He can’t help but remember — there had been parts of the crisis like this. Not the short, frantic spells of front line fighting, but long slogs. Weeks of building, fortifying certain areas, weakening others, attempting to either save a site or to guide the omnics to a location away from humans. They were just as easy to reason with as the mud. It’s easy to fall back on old patterns, as the waters rise and the mud starts to slip underneath his boots.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	the banks begin to break (and I'm in the throes of it)

The rain hits Dorado hard that winter.

Before long landslides follow, crushing whatever lies in their wake. In the last days of autumn Jack had made the decision to winter in the town, with Los Muertos quiescent in the wake of his crusade. He holed up in an abandoned house near the edge of town. The nights were freezing, and the days were grey, but it was still better than worrying about waking up with frostbite.

It’s not his home, not really, but it takes him less than a week to join in the town’s fortification efforts. All the locals have to work with are sandbags, heavy and cumbersome, used to build up walls around the town’s most vulnerable spots, trying to get the mud to go _elsewhere._ Anywhere but into their homes, their shops. Their lives.

He can’t help but remember — there had been parts of the crisis like this. Not the short, frantic spells of front line fighting, but long slogs. Weeks of building, fortifying certain areas, weakening others, attempting to either save a site or to guide the omnics to a location away from humans. They were just as easy to reason with as the mud. It’s easy to fall back on old patterns, as the waters rise and the mud starts to slip underneath his boots.

The first day he shows up at the site, the men look at if they want to send him home. He knows he looks old, as if he’ll not be any use. But he can’t bring himself to sit by while these men struggle to save their homes, he never could. If he could, everything leading to this might have been avoided. So he stands there and stares them down until one mutters, “don’t hurt yourself, grandpa,” before turning back to the bag he’s lifting. Jack nods, and goes to get a bag of his own. Any grumbling dies down soon enough as he carries bag after bag to the fortifications without complaint, slogging through the rain and sucking mud, feeling his shoes slowly fill with the stuff as the waterproofing gives way. There’s no way not to get soaked, in conditions like this, with the rain beating down from above and the waters rising below. Best to just let it happen.

Around midday, the men take a break under a hastily constructed tent. They are, to a man, all steaming from the heat and moisture, mist rising up from them in little curlicules through the tent’s still air. Even Jack’s breathing hard, red faced from the morning’s effort. Some of the men look about ready to keel over. Jack can only hope they wait it out in the tent, or have the good sense to fall backwards when they do. Drowning in mud is a terrible way to go.

Not long after they’ve sat, boys from the village start running up with covered bowls of stew and bread, handing them out to the men one by one. They’ve been doing their part for the effort as well — running little cups of coffee up to the men all morning, black and strong and sweet as sin. One of the men says something to one of the boys, gestures towards Jack with his head. The boy nods and runs off, then returns soon after with another bowl in his hand, thrusting it in Jack’s direction. Jack startles a little, “I really don’t…” 

Jack trails off as the boy looks over to the man, the head of the village if Jack has the right idea of it. The man shakes his head in exasperation, turns to talk to Jack for the first time today. “You’ve worked all morning,” he says, gesturing with his spoon. “Eat the food. Can’t have you fainting later on.” Jack hesitantly takes the bowl, thanking the boy who immediately scurries away.

Now that they’re eating, the men seem to have regained their energy. Now, having eaten at their table, it seems he’s one of the men. “Where did you come from?” they ask. 

“North”

“How long have you been in Dorado?”

“Not long, just passing through.”

“How did you get so strong?”

“Farm work. It grows on you.”

There are some light hearted jests at one of the other men in the little gaggle at that, _you grew up on a farm, didn’t you Juan, what were you doing instead of working, huh? Too busy chasing girls?_ Jack eats his stew. It’s good, with little bits of pork, and corn, and what he thinks is shredded radish on top. He mops up the last of the broth with the tortilla he was given and turns to ask Gabriel what he thought of the food, then flinches when he finds only empty air. He’d forgotten, for a moment. Where he is. What he’s done.

Someone claps him on the shoulder. “Time to get back to it, grandpa, these things aren’t gonna build themselves.”

Things worsen in the afternoon. He’s tiring, falling back on old habits more and more, and he keeps turning, expecting to see Gabriel there. A couple of times he prepares to catch bags that aren’t being thrown towards him, or murmurs requests that nobody’s there to hear. Once, he slips and expects to be caught, only to find himself face-down in the knee-deep mud. The men, hearing his surprised yelp over the rain’s thundering, come to help extract him from the dirt, checking him over for injury, telling him to take a break. Get some of his energy back. “It’s fine,” he growls. “I just slipped. It won’t happen again.” He lets the pelting rain wash away the mud and the hurt as he continues to haul bag after bag after bag. 

That night when he drops himself on to his worn mattress, he’s the most tired he’s been in years. The group of them had managed to get part of the town fortified, but there were still areas that were in danger if another slide were to happen. The rain hadn’t let up, so it wasn’t a matter of if. It was a matter of when. He goes over plans in his head, plans he and Gabriel had hammered out together so long ago. Some he discards, others he can use to help these people survive this.

He can hear the storm continuing to rage outside the one room he’s claimed as his own. Jack wraps himself in his blankets to try and stave off the evening’s chill, exhausted, wishing for someone to help keep him warm. The close press of skin and the smell of someone else huddled against him always made winters bearable. He curls as small as he can, trying to mimic the sensation. 

Near sleep, he blinks his eyes open one more time, an old habit so that the last thing he sees before he drifts off is Gabriel’s face. There is only the peeling wallpaper of the opposite wall. The chill of his loneliness follows him into his dreams.


End file.
